Skin Like Snowflakes
by Stonecreek
Summary: Being a day student is not all it's cracked up to be.  Yumi dwells on this - and Ulrich - one evening, and happens upon a distracting alleviation for both problems.  Strong T.


**A.N.** – I set out to have this be a chapter in "The Kadic Dossier" but it grew too long for that. Then it sat around on my computer for seven months because I was unsure how it'd be received. Then I decided I didn't give a damn. This ended up darker and more morbid than I planned for it to be, and I do not advocate what goes on in here. The title (and inspiration) is from the Greenwheel song "Novocain," off their unreleased album _Electric Blanket_. I don't own the song or Code Lyoko.

ʓʓʓʓʓ

**Skin Like Snowflakes**

Being a day student is not all it's cracked up to be. For one, Ulrich is confined to campus after classes let out. I, meanwhile, have to go home. That's a major drawback. Second, an evening with my family isn't exactly invigorating. Tedium would be more accurate. Even Hiroki's pestering, while annoying, always follows a routine.

Tonight is no different. Hiroki bugs me while I do homework, and my only reprieve comes when the brat had to set the table for dinner. That means I get dishes afterwards. It's almost preferable sitting through a dinner in which the only small talk is dad trying to crack a joke and failing. But eventually that has to end.

I am elbow-deep in soap suds while the rest of the family congregates around our small television. It's the perfect time to dwell on what I could be doing instead of this, were I back at Kadic with my friends. Then it happens. A sharp, sudden prick, an intake of breath, and a rush of stinging pain, and the water is polluted by a trail of red. Wincing, I bring my right hand out of the sink to inspect the damage.

My palm has a diagonal cut from my index finger almost down to the wrist. It is not deep. I watch, mesmerized, as the blood slowly trickles down from hand to arm, to elbow, such a contrast to my skin color. I seem to be paler than usual; perhaps it's a bit of shock? I snap out of it and hold my arm over the sink so I do not get any on the floor. Mentally berating myself, I grab a paper towel, soak it, and then clean off the congealing trail.

I'd been groping around the bottom of the sink for any remaining dishes, had felt the blade and pulled back. I don't want to think what would have happened had I fully closed my hand around it. It hurts enough as is. I grab another wad of paper towels and mummify my hand, staunching the bleeding.

I drain the sink before finishing, and with only one hand to use it takes forever. The bleeding has stopped by the time I'm done. I throw the sullied paper towels away, making sure to bury them under as much garbage as I can, and quickly go up to my room. I'd rather not explain to the folks what happened, and I know Hiroki would latch onto my injury as his newest teasing target.

The night drags by. I try reading, but the book's main character keeps morphiong into Ulrich. Sighing, I toss the paperback across the room, feeling my hand cramp up as I do so. I run my left thumb over my slowly-healing wound. It's tender, nearly translucent, a bit jelly-like to the touch. After a day or two, there shouldn't be a sign that there ever was a mark to begin with.

As I absently toy with my hand, my ruminations on Ulrich return. A loop of him laughing, on the soccer pitch, and slicing monsters up on Lyoko cycles through my mind. It's not enough, though; I want to be there, to be with him, to enjoy my evenings rather than just put up with them. Nights like tonight, I want to scream at the walls, or crawl up them, or both.

I cut myself off mid-rant as I notice my thumbnail has punctured the newly-formed skin over my cut. Groaning, I get up off my bed and exit my room, making sure to hold the palm up so as not to drip blood on the floor. It very slowly pools in my slightly cupped hand as I enter the bathroom flick on the lights and rummage around for a bandage.

By the time I've found what I'm looking for, I have more blood on my hand than I was expecting. It doesn't hurt this time around, so I pause for a bit and examine the nagging injury. I gently incline my hand and watch the crimson spread, in a wax-paper thin layer, over my flesh. I take my thumb again and press down, to see if it'll stop the problem or exacerbate it. It does neither; instead, the blood all flows toward the indent I'm making in the center of my palm.

I finally tip my hand over and let the stuff run down the bathroom sink. I wash the basin thoroughly so as to leave no trace of what I've done. I have the wrapper on the bandage halfway open before I decide I might as well take my evening bath while I'm in here. I go back to my room for my sleepwear, then close and lock the bathroom door behind me, all using my uninjured left hand. It feels more awkward than it should.

When I go to fill the tub, I go back to my dominant hand to turn the tap. The slight pressure on the barely-open cut sends little jolts to my brain. I quickly stick my right hand under the gushing water, rinsing the area. I grab a towel, pat dry myself a few times, then disrobe. There's no way I could do that with only one hand. Every time fabric brushes against the injury, more twinges of pain pulse in my hand.

When the tub is full, I settle into it, just lounging for a minute to get used to the hot water. I dunk myself under, and let the water drip in my eyes when I emerge. My vision swims with beads of bathwater and something else; I determine I'm feeling my heartbeat behind my eyes, in tune with every time my wound throbs underwater.

Shaking my head, I grab my loofa and soap it up. I scrub myself with my good hand until I get to my back. My left arm isn't used to bending that way, so I switch hands so I can reach better. The soap and my fledgling cut do not get along. I bite my lip as the suds mingle with the remnants of my blood still clinging to the area. Tiny white spots dance at the edge of my vision as I hurriedly finish washing myself.

I submerge once more to rinse off, and instead of the water stinging, it soothes as I go under. I blink, not expecting that to occur. Coming up sooner than I normally would, I run my right hand through some of the soap bubbles floating on the surface of the water. The pain returns, less than before, but still noticeable. It's not nearly as unpleasant when I am more aware of what to expect. I keep my head up but put the hand under, laying back as the cut is washed clean again. That feels wonderful.

The bathwater is growing a bit lukewarm, so reluctantly I clamber out of the tub. I watch the water swirl down the drain as I wrap myself in a big, fluffy towel. The hand no longer cramps up as it grips the towel to tuck it into place around my hair. I roughly dry myself off with another towel and don the clothes I'd brought in. The second towel gets tossed in the hamper as I go back to my room. I call out an "oyasumi" in the direction of the family room as I make my way to bed.

I flick on the lights as I shut the door behind me. I am tempted to pick up the forlorn book still sitting in the corner from when I threw it, but decide against it. I don't need to remind myself of Ulrich anymore tonight. I give a start, falling-sitting on my bed; a sense of light-headedness sweeps through me momentarily. I haven't actually thought of Ulrich since…since this cut became the center of my attention.

I mull that over as I stand up and pull the covers back. Is it something about the new, fresh pain driving all thought of the stale, oft-repeated pain away? Or is it something simpler, like base instincts dictating that physical woes outweigh emotional ones? I reach up and unfurl the towel from my head, tossing it toward the door so I remember to take care of it in the morning. I reach out and nudge the light switch before climbing into bed and snuggling up. Downstairs, the sound has dissipated, meaning the rest of the family is following suit.

I hold my arm out in the pale light that filters through my drawn curtains. The flesh that greets me is so pale. I know its partly just me, who I am and what I normally look like. But a bit of me is saying that tonight's events have played their part. I scoff under my breath at the thought. I barely lost any blood at all. I probably shocked a year or two off my life, not drained a skin tone or two out of my hand.

I close my eyes and try to sleep. All the trying in the world isn't helping matters for me, though. After an hour or two of readjusting how I lay and repeatedly banishing Ulrich-centric thoughts away, I sit up, frustrated. I've gone to sleep many a night by having Ulrich swim through my thoughts, but that's not to be this time. He's destined to be a troubling influence, not a calming one, tonight. I press my palms against my forehead, massaging the perceived brain cramp away.

That doesn't work, either. I wasn't really expecting it to. Subconsciously, I know there's only one solution for this problem tonight. I prick my ears up, listening for any sound in the house. I am met with silence. Satisfied, I creep out of bed, sliding my feet into my household slippers. I quietly pad to the kitchen to go searching for what I need.

I carefully, stealthily pick thorough our family's silverware drawer. Near the back are all the disused pieces we own, and it's there I find the old paring knife. I finger the edge gingerly; the metal is dull from too much use. I hesitate, almost putting it back. I know okaa-san won't miss the little knife; we got a new set because these ones were too old. I straighten up, cradling my little find against my side, and gently slide the drawer shut.

As I exit the kitchen and return to my room, my thoughts are a jumble. I know what I'm doing, I tell myself, but I don't, not at all. I've never thought about doing this before tonight; I've barely thought about it at all. You hear whispers about the school, stigmas that get attached to those they are about. I've heard my name mentioned a time or two and it hasn't bothered me; I'm sure they lump me in because I dress in black.

But still, even though I can admit to myself that I really don't know what I'm doing, I'd like to know why. What compelled me to take action? What inkling in the back of my mind spurred me on to follow through on words I barely paid attention to? I reach my room and close the door as noiselessly as possible. I turn on the small lamp on my desk, half-filling the room with warm, yellow light.

I hold the small implement up to my face. It's so small, yet I'm sure it's more than enough to do this task. But how am I going to go about it? I'm sure as hell not going to be all melodramatic like the rumors at school. I'm not doing this to get off on the rush of pain or any of that cliché nonsense. This is not for harm; it's more…pain management. It's a way to balance what I'm feeling out. At this moment, I'd almost call it a fascination. It makes little sense in my head, but it's enough.

I sit at the foot of my bed, and stare down what was once used to peel fruit. I clutch the handle tighter and feel a lingering ache from the slice across my palm. I switch the knife over to my left hand and take a deep breath. Tentatively, I prod at the new tissue my body has formed over the gouging I gave myself. I barely push the tip of the blade through the skin. There's no resistance from the new skin. Bracing myself, I maneuver the paring knife through the pale path on my palm.

The blood oozes to the surface all at once after I take the blade out. I stare transfixed as it escapes the edges of the wound I just reopened. The pull of my heartbeat is greater than ever, as with each palpitation, a bit more of my own essence flows out. There's more this time than either of the other times I had let the cut bleed.

Pulse racing, I grab the towel that'd been around my hair earlier and held it in my lap. Droplets of blood ran off my hand, following the palm's lines like miniature rivers through a wintery landscape. I watch tiny bubbles from as the new liquid tries to force the old out of the way. The off-yellow towel is getting splotched a dark ocher, slowly seeping in as my blood seeps out to supply it. Faintly, I smile.

The pain is slower in making itself noticed, probably due to the adrenaline I'd built up in anticipation of this. The small delight I took in observing morphed into a biting hurt. I tightly press the towel to my still-bleeding handiwork. The paring knife bounced once on the floor and landed under my bed. I should've thought to bring in a bandage or two; now I won't be able to open the door until I can staunch the flow of blood. The firm press of the soft fabric feels good.

I flop down prone on the bed, left hand clutching the bundle that is the right. 'Start small,' I chide myself while waiting. A small chuckle escapes. If I can find some humor in this weird evening, I guess this was worth it. Somehow I know I won't have trouble sleeping now. I lift the towel and see no trickle of blood as the cloth is pulled away. Clucking under my breath at the ruined towel, I lean down and grasp the paring knife, wrapping it in the fabric and tucking it back where it had ended up.

The adrenaline buzz is kaput as I lay back down under the blankets. I stare at the cut, stark red and raw against alabaster skin, and feel my eyes flutter shut. I feel my heartbeat once again, thrumming through the object of my examination. I yawn, feeling utterly relaxed. My thoughts muddy up as I feel my grip on wakefulness slip. A dull night, a dull knife. I could get used to this.

**A.N. 2 –** Hope this didn't squick anyone. This idea hit me as I was driving to work and just kept going. I haven't written this much in one sitting in a while. As always, comments and criticisms are welcomed, especially since I have no experience with cutting and very little with scrapes of any sort. Thanks again for reading.


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